The Hero of Humiliation

365 Days of Creativity

day one hundred and fifteen

Everyday I hang myself

I nail myself

I staple myself to the wall

Everyday I bleed myself

I let myself

I rub my blood out in the hall

Everyday I hate myself

berate myself

I get out of bed and mandate myself

to update myself

to curate myself

Artist the fuck up and create myself

Everyday I design myself
define myself
I put on my face and outline myself

Everyday I dissect myself

I correct myself

Take out my parts and infect myself

I change myself

rearrange myself

I paint all my organs and stain myself

Everyday I reword myself

martyr myself

Use the strings from the Beats to suture myself

I collect myself

Resurrect myself

My volition in life; to perfect myself

If I fail myself

derail myself

I'll have nothing but a cheap veil of myself;

a shattered bulb 

a melted fuse

a pack of matches burned and used.

No supernova, 

glory,

fame.

No concrete star,

with golden name.

Forgotten, faded,

dusty muse.

Mona Lisa,

cut and bruised.

My blood still smeared all down the hall,

my skin still nailed up to the wall.

My body scarred from mutilation,

mapped attempts at self-creation.

A jagged, 

torn up,

constellation,

The Hero of Humiliation.

Don't we all fear failure's kiss?

For if you shoot 

for the moon 

and miss,

you'll rot away in the abyss.